A finely crafted art object
by marginaliana
Summary: Crack prompt: "A reimagining of Antiques Roadshow as a slash fic about Harry and Draco." It's all copperbadge's fault.


Draco hated queuing. It was beneath him, really, since a man of his prestige really ought to have been spirited away to a private room and provided a complementary beverage. He had many reasons to hate the Dark Lord, even now that the snake was dead, but the most significant one was that Voldemort had brought Draco to this. Someday, Draco vowed, he would reclaim his family's reputation and wealth, and from that point on he would make it a point to never wait in a bloody queue ever again. Especially not one populated exclusively by Muggles.

He passed the time by examining what the wretches around him had brought. Two ahead of him in the queue was a spectacularly ugly painting of fruit and a rather plain doll that looked just like a Weasley. In front of that was a set of Federalist chairs which might have been worth something had they not been poorly refinished. Across the aisle in the next line of the queue was a huge mirror on a trolley, and Draco admired the artistic sweep of his hair across his brow. Here was such beauty, surrounded by such trash. How did the Muggles stand themselves?

After two hours he reached the head of the queue and was promptly directed into another one. He let out a huff of breath, but kept his temper in check. Not much longer now. Draco didn't know much about the piece he'd brought, an elegant Chinese vase decorated in dark blue dragons and a rare non-magical piece from the Malfoy collection, but he hoped it was worth something significant. Anything over £300 and he'd be able to afford a really nice new set of robes, rather than trying to extend the ones from his sixth year which were three inches too short to be fashionable.

"Next!" said a familiar voice, and Draco sighed. It would be just his luck. For a moment he thought about turning around and going home, but the stubborn voice in the back of his head told him it wouldn't do any good. He was cursed. Cursed with a surplus of annoying heroes sticking their noses into Draco's life.

"Working for a living, Potter?" he said, stepping forward. Potter's mouth dropped open in a gratifyingly surprised expression. Draco noted that his hair was as tousled as ever, but somehow it had been arranged to hang just over his scar. _Clever_, Draco thought sarcastically.

"Malfoy," Potter acknowledged after a moment. "Slumming?"

Draco laughed, almost against his will. "Something like that." He set his vase on the table and made an attempt to be civil. He _had_ learned the basics of discretion. Eventually. "Didn't think this is what you'd be doing with yourself," he admitted.

The attempt was returned in kind, though there remained an edge of suspicion in Potter's voice. "I'm mostly just here consulting," Potter said. "Ever since they've started this show we've had a rash of, you know," he lowered his voice and made a vague hand gesture, "not exactly Muggle artifacts, you know? Turning up in attics and things like that. Don't s'pose you'd know anything about that."

_Typical of Potter_, Draco thought, _to always assume the worst about a Slytherin_. "I've got better things to do than waste my time with the petty harassment of Muggles." Potter snorted.

"Times have changed then."

Draco bit his lip. "Yeah, they have," he said. Potter looked abashed.

"Anyway," he said. "What brings you here?"

Draco was grateful for the change of topic and tapped the rim of the vase. "Do you actually know anything about antiques, or should I harass you until you go get me a real expert?"

"I know some," Potter said. "My aunt was nuts about this sort of thing. Left all her magazines lying around the house." He sat up a little straighter. "Tell me about this little piece of plastic, then."

"Potter, this vase has been in my family for centuries," said Draco. "It is a finely crafted art object."

"Mmmhmmm," said Potter, tipping the vase over to examine the underside. His finger caught on one of the chipped edges and he cursed softly.

"Careful, it bites," said Draco with a smirk, but he was distracted by the way Potter sucked on the tip of his finger. Potter looked up.

"Bitethhh?" he said.

"Joke, Potter," said Draco. "You've heard of them?"

"There's nothing like a good joke," Potter agreed, taking his finger out of his mouth. "Of course, that was absolutely nothing like a good joke." Draco rolled his eyes.

"Anyway," Potter continued. "This is a fake."

"Cease your scurrilous lies," said Draco. "Seriously, Potter, I want to know what it's worth."

"It _is_ a fake," Potter continued. "A fairly creditable Qing dynasty attempt, but still nowhere near old enough to be genuine. You can see where the maker attempted to age the piece by chipping it," he pointed, "but the shape of the chip isn't consistent with what would happen in normal use. More like the edge of a chisel. And the Yongzheng mark on the base is just a little too crisp. The ink should be fuzzier here." He tipped the vase up again.

Draco sagged a little bit. "But it's a family heirloom," he said, hating the whine in his voice. "How can it be a fake?"

"Oh, there have been knockoffs made for ages," said Potter. "Almost as far back as the originals. But this is probably from about 1900 or so. Could have been in your family for generations, but still not what it appears to be."

"Bollocks," said Draco. "Bloody buggering bollocks." Potter started to snicker behind his hand.

"Sorry," he said, but the edges of his mouth were turning up.

"Is it worth anything at all?" Draco asked.

"'Bout £150," said Potter. "Not too shabby."

Not bad, Draco thought, but nothing near what he'd hoped for. He couldn't sell Muggle pottery to wizards, either, which meant either hauling the thing around to various galleries and getting a minimal return or, even less palatable, cutting back his mother's weekly allowance.

Then Potter butted in again. "Listen," he said hesitantly, "I dunno if you're interested in knowing more about Muggle pottery, but… I have some books you could borrow." He gave Draco a pointed look and jerked his head to encompass their surroundings. "If you don't mind a little rubbing shoulders with the plebs, you could learn to do this kind of thing yourself, you know."

Draco considered the idea. They could get together, Draco would manipulate Potter into doing all the work for him, and Potter would get to feel like a do-gooder. And Draco's reputation, at this point, could only be improved by the association. It was the perfect solution. Still, it wouldn't do to seem too eager.

"That would be acceptable," he said, in his best aloof voice. "Best not to rely on inferior minds for information." If he didn't know better, Draco would have sworn that Potter was smirking at him.

"I'll owl you, then," said Potter. He gave Draco a vulgar jerk of the head. "Now get out of here. You're holding up the queue."

Draco snorted but hefted the vase into his arms again. "Charming as ever, Potter. I'll make sure your owl's on my access list. _Don't_ make me waste my time."

As he stepped away, the next person in the queue set down some sort of teacup with frogs on it, an object so grotesque that Draco had to turn his back to get away from the shudder-inducing horror. He could feel Potter's gaze, though, and gave his hips a swing from side to side, just once, smirking.

Well, well, thought Draco. He was cursed with heroes, but perhaps there were some benefits to the otherwise tragic situation. Free appraisal advice, mockable conversation, and if nothing else, spending time with someone so famous would mean he didn't have to stand in any more bloody queues!


End file.
